


Soliloquy

by morallygreydesi



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, blue centric, mostly a fic of blue reflecting on their situation, no real spoilers for anything, set sometime after bllb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6058665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morallygreydesi/pseuds/morallygreydesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue Sargent is a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much wrote this for a Creative Writing assignment in school. Our professor asked us to write a fanfic, and this popped into my head. It's very Blue-centric. A bit of an experimentation on writing a character centric fic. Constructive criticism is very, very welcome, since I've never done something like this before - I'm expecting this to be very rusty.

Blue Sargent is a lot of things.

One could say she is quirky. That would be the simplest, most ignorant way of putting it. An easy label to put on this funny named teenager, with her funnily sewn dresses, and funnily chopped hair, and funny little home full of funny little psychic women. It describes her aptly, yet so plainly, that Blue itches to shrug it off like a damp towel.

One could also say she is full of potential, like her mother says. Blue, the only non-clairvoyant, in her family of psychics; Blue who can’t see anything remotely supernatural, yet can sharpen it for all psychics. Blue with her psychic battery energy that allows ghosts to become real and spirits to whisper her name. Blue with her blue aura and hundreds of years old father, and a deadly death written over her lips.

Blue who has always known she would kiss her true love and condemn him to die.

Sensibly, she’s always known she would fall in love, one day, and that she’d face the inevitable truth of knowing that one wrong touch could kill him. Insensibly, she’d hoped it would never really be true.

Yet, here she lays beside the boy she knows she is either going to kill or love. She can feel the heat of his arm, through the rolled up sleeve of his Aglionby shirt. If she concentrates hard enough, she can pretend she feels his pulse rushing underneath. She can imagine how it would feel to run a finger down it, and then up his neck, and then touch his lips with her own – would he die right away? Would her lungs consume the life out of his? Or would a meteor drop from the heavens above? Would a hornet’s nest suddenly burst, their venom deadly to his allergic system, while her lips stung his? She wonders what they would taste like.

The only boy she’d ever kissed was a dead one, and she wonders if Gansey would taste like warm honey instead of Noah’s ice popsicle lips. Longing swirls in the pit of her stomach, but not the kind that comes from not being able to have something. It’s the worse kind, the kind that comes from wanting something and having it ripe for the taking, but knowing you shouldn’t. How much would Blue long to kiss Gansey knowing it could be their last kiss – how much would she long for it knowing that its expiry date made it all the more precious? One kiss for one death. Gansey had once told Blue that if she could be kissed, he would beg one off of her – but now she thinks she might be the one to beg. Kiss or kill? She can’t help but think that she’d like to do a little of both.

Beside her, Gansey shifts. Blue is suddenly aware of where she lays. Hugged by the overgrowth of Monmouth Manufacturing, she realizes that perhaps quirky is the best way to describe her, after all. Not many teenagers spend afternoons laying in the backyard of an abandoned factory, which also served as a home to two (three?) of her best friends. But she is not most teenagers, is she?

“Jane,” Gansey whispers, because that isn’t her name.

“Dick,” Blue responds, because it _is_ his name.

“Do you think we’ll find him?” he asks. She can hear the nonchalance in his voice. He’s using his Dick Gansey voice – the one that speaks of old money and older men, the one that could convince a saint to sin. She inhales its smooth, Virginian accent and longs to spit it out. She hates this voice. It’s not _her_ Gansey, how much ever of him was hers.

“I don’t know,” she answers, honestly. He nods. A gnat sticks to Blue’s forehead and she swats it away, her fingers landing on something cold beside her. The cold thing snakes its arms around her and she tilts her head to let it sit on Noah’s shoulder. He’s less Noah, and more of a suggestion, until she touches him and feels him become more corporeal while he sucks her energy. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise her that he’s here. Being around Noah is like breathing – you don’t notice he’s there until you become aware of it, yet you know it’s an involuntary phenomenon that is omnipresent. His pale blond hair is mixed up with daisy chains, and like most things Noah does, it makes perfect sense the exact moment that it does.

 _How odd this feels,_ Blue thinks, sandwiched between one dead boy using her to stay alive, and one living boy who is fated to use her to die. It’s like laying between ice and fire. She feels Noah fiddling with her short, choppy hair, and placing daisies from his own hair into her plethora of pins and clips. Blue is all too aware of Gansey watching them, imagines his eyelids lowering lazily and opening again.

Blue feels like she could beam with happiness.

Blue feels like she could die of sadness.

She wishes she could articulate this emotion that curls through her veins, this feeling of summertime sadness. The suffocating heat of Henrietta, one that had always made her love her home a little more, now feels like a pillow to her face. Perhaps it is Cabeswater and the ley line playing tricks on her mind, a midnight mirage where she imagines the stars falling on her eyelids until they feel heavy enough to slumber. Perhaps it is the stifling realization that Adam will leave, and Gansey will find Glendower before finding his next great adventure, and all that will be left behind is a sad girl with one angry boy and one dead one.

Perhaps it is the concrete knowledge that in a few months, Gansey’s death has been promised. She rarely lets herself think of that night when she saw his spirit wandering the corpse road, his face a smudge of death and despair and cold, cold rain. But, in moments like these, when the sunlight blinds her eyes and the hair brushing her ears dampens her hearing, she closes her eyes and sees him like she saw him, fallen to his knees and whispering his own name.

There is a searing burn somewhere in her lungs, like all the oxygen pumping through her blood has touched a lit match. She coughs hard, blinking back tears, pretending that the hacking in her lungs is not splinters of her broken heart. Noah gently pats her head, and the daintiness of the touch makes her feel hard and lethal. She turns away from it, burying her face in Gansey’s neck.

He inhales sharply, brokenly. Silence persists for a moment. Blue hesitantly lifts her eyes to see if Adam has seen, if he feels betrayed by this turn of events. All she can see is Adam and Ronan laying over the hood of the latter’s black BMW, wrapped up in it and around each other. Neither of them are saying anything, but for a moment she notices the way both of them are trying to _not_ notice each other; and the _not_ noticing is very noticeable to everyone. The distance between the two boys is a foot apart, but Blue feels like she’s interrupting something intimate. She slowly puts her head back down, tucking her face back into her teenage millionaire’s obnoxiously expensive collar.

“Jane,” Gansey hisses, or maybe he sighs. It could’ve been both, or something else altogether. She’s a little sadistic, because she blows a hot breath on his jugular. He makes a different sound, one that feels a little like pain. She feels him tense and then roll to his side, their faces a few inches apart. Jagged jigsaw edges make their faces, both pieces knowing that it is not the right time to complete the picture.

Maybe she's also a little masochistic.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Gansey mumbles, his eyes talking to her lips.

She laughs. _Yes, yes I will._

Noah – beside her, so, so cold, and so, so dead - hears Gansey’s quiet exclamation. Blue knows he does because he tries very _hard_ to remain silent, which means he’s very, very loud in his protest. She feels it in the way the air turns more frigid around her, goosebumps sliding underneath sweat, creating the weirdest feeling in the world.

Gansey leans forward, cheek warm and flushed against her own. Arms enclose her in a sad embrace, and she inhales deeply, inhales his old book, Chevrolet oil, fresh mint smell. She memorizes him until she’ll remember him even when she has no senses anymore.

Gansey pulls away a second later, as if something tells him to. A few minutes later, when they’ve put an appropriate amount of distance between themselves, Adam and Ronan join them. The two of them stand above Noah, Gansey, and Blue’s heads, their silhouettes looming and dark against the sunlight. Blue should feel overwhelmed, surrounded by so many boys, who were trouble; so many Aglionby boys, who were bastards.

Instead, she takes a shuddering breath. She closes her eyes and breathes, and then a sharp weight falls on her chest. Car keys shimmer in the heat. Looking up, she sees Ronan pointedly looking in the opposite direction. This strikes her as obscure. He is the last person to ever note her discomfort – he often revels in other people’s discomfort. For some reason, he is not meeting her eye, and that alone nudges her curiosity. She sits up and dusts herself free of pollen and Gansey. Noah and Adam wave goodbye, as if they already know where she’s going.

It takes them fifteen minutes to leave the Monmouth lot, mainly because Blue keeps stalling the manual transmission. Ultimately, Ronan just slams his hand down on her knee, growling under his breath until she eases off the clutch at the right pace, and then pulls out of the lot. After that, he’s itching to push her other knee down on the gas because she’s going far too slow for this boy who was made to speed like dreams were made to die.

He makes her drive around, and after a while, Blue is unsure if they’re practicing her driving skills or practicing their friendship. Maybe, just maybe, they’re practicing the rest of their lives once the boys they love leave them for good.

“Pull over, maggot,” Ronan says, in a low voice. It’s punctuated with razors but it’s the gentlest thing he’s ever said to her. Her hands are shaking by the time she pulls to the side of the road, and when she finally pulls the parking break, her knees are shaking too.

She pulls them to her chest and presses the hollows of her eyes to her kneecap, and it hurts at the back of her head, but it feels disgustingly good. Tears don’t come, but neither does her breath.

Ronan says nothing, and so he says everything.

There is no reaching for each other’s hands, or redundant comforting words (because Blue never hears lies, and Ronan never tells them), or even a soft shushing noise. He has brought her here to fall apart in silence. Blue is curious as to how he knew she was breaking, but maybe sledgehammers like him know what precariously pieced walls look like. She makes a sniffling noise, even though there are no tears or snot. The BMW rocks a little as some other car zooms past them.

Blue comes to the realization that this is the rest of her life – dust crusted pathways and sweat coated leather sticking painfully to the back of her thighs. Rowdy boys not holding her hand, and gentle boys holding her like a vice. Henrietta accent thick on her tongue, thicker than wine she will never afford. Virginia dust in her eyes, little sand particles slicing her until she is a pile of ribbons like Maraschino cherries and bones like ice tea.

“Tell me something,” she whispers. It’s a request that hurts her ego, but if this is going to be her life, then she’d better practice running into Ronan like running into a wall.

He doesn’t acknowledge her request. Instead, he runs his bony fingers over his neck – she can see the colossal tattoo snaking over his neck and through the gaps of his black tank top – and then over his buzzed head. Finally, he presses a button on the stereo and the _Murder Squash_ song bursts through the speakers.

Blue is all but ready to screech and turn it off, but he stops her fingers before they can touch the dial. His eyes hold a warning. His bared teeth and clenched jaw seem to say _please_ in the only way they know how to. Of all the music he could’ve played – this prodigal son with collections of classical Irish music – he decides to play the song nobody lets him. Blue thinks it’s a little sad that his song struggles to exist as much as he does.

She quietly listens, until her heart beats with the same rhythm as the harsh bass of the song.

_One squash, two squash_

Her eyes feel heavier, even though she’s never been more awake. Anger courses through her veins as the lyrics make home in her bones, the music tearing her to shreds, and the solo turning her unshed tears to blood. The sobs stuck in her throat turn to screams. She’s starting to see why this song appeals to Ronan so much – this song that makes it easier to burn the world instead of setting fire to yourself.

It plays on repeat, and continues playing when Ronan gingerly slides Blue over his lap and deposits her gracelessly onto the passenger seat. Taking over the driver’s side, he burns rubber as he screeches back onto the road and Blue longs to stick her head out the window and yell, or maybe weep. She lets the wind whip her hair around, her legs sitting on the dash. She’ll never admit that her fingers are curling and uncurling in the seats to the rhythm of the song.

Ronan drives in circles around Henrietta, until her head stops spinning. His foot barely lifts off the gas, until her world stops flying around her. By the time they pull back into the Monmouth Manufacturing lot, the sun has set. The overgrown grass is abandoned, and Adam’s car is missing. There is no sign of Gansey or Noah.

Everyone has left.

Ronan slows to a stop and Blue waits for a moment before jumping out of the car. He follows suit, knocking once on the hood. She considers this a sign of goodbye, because he says nothing else before making his way into the warehouse. Now, only the sounds of cicadas keep her company.

Trudging through the grass and abandoned daisies, she searches for her bicycle. It is overturned where Noah had been laying down, more daisies stuck in the spokes of the wheels. She takes each one out, putting them in her pocket – she will stick them to her closet later tonight. Looking back at the empty space, she waves to the air. Once she feels a blast of cold air, she starts pedaling back home, to 300 Fox Way.

The air gets balmier, and she knows the temperature will keep rising until it falls for the night. It is not fully summer yet, the spring months still clinging to a familiar hope. She pedals faster and faster, only slowing down to a stop when she reaches her mix-and-match home. Abandoning the bicycle in the yard, she sits on the porch.

The light is on, and a few moths circle around it, creating a halo of fluttering shadows around Blue’s face. She stares at her fingers, where the daisy petals are stuck with sweat. They remind her of Adam, and the forest where his life has been forfeit. They remind her of Noah, with the flowers in his eyes. They remind her of Ronan, a shattered weed of a boy. They remind her of Gansey, doomed to rot and die. Her raven boys.

The Magician, and the Ghost, and the Greywaren, and the King.

And then there’s her. Blue. Just Blue.

The Waitress. The Dog-Walker. The Daughter. The Battery. The Mirror. The Witch. The Starbucks Table.

Blue Sargent is a lot of things, just like her boys.

Alone was none of them.

Lonely was all of them.

 

 


End file.
